LaLaurie
by EstrellaGrace
Summary: Nicholas Kim Coppola has just moved into her new house in New Orleans without knowing the historical events that went down within the walls. SHORT STORY. ONE CHAPTER. A LOT OF SYMBOLISM.


**Disclaimer: I in no way own Nicholas Cage nor the LaLaurie house**

I just want to point out that this story is racist, but I'm not. This is a short story I had to write for an English class I'm taking and I in no way approve of racism or any other shit in this story. This is a short story with no possible way to add a second chapter. There is also a shit ton of symbolism in this story and if you are interested in seeing my notes then PM me for the annotations and I'll send you the original copy.

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"Kim, now are you sure that you are ready for a new house on your own?" Kim Coppola's parents said to her. Kim had been coming around for months, looking for a house to start her new life as a tour guide in a city with more people than can fit on the streets. Kim assures her parents that she'll be fine and I watch her through the second story window as she walks through the doorway and into the living room, waving her parents goodbye from the doorstep. Mister and Missus Coppola drive off quickly. The young, naive girl has no idea what she is getting herself into by buying such a landmark where she is most definitely not welcome. There is a clear distinction between her kind and my own seeing as how she is so obviously below me.

I admit, I want the child out. She has no right to be in such a magnificent and vibrant city with no prior knowledge to her surroundings, let alone her antique residence. I watch her disdainfully as she spreads her sheets on the bed, her reading glasses perched on her nose like a cuckoo on a branch. I watch her as she reads silently. Five minutes pass and she acts as if I am not even here; she keeps reading, not looking up or addressing me whatsoever. I storm downstairs, scowling with a venom that could kill at the cardboard boxes lining the walls. Of course, I would not kill so quickly, but I would most certainly chain her in the attic if she as much as looks at me the wrong way. My age makes me powerful and if Kim decides not to acknowledge that, then consequences must be dealt out.

I watch as she sleeps quietly. Kim Coppola dreams of her new dwelling. She dreams beautifully, but that is all those fantasies will ever be — dreams. If I have it my way, which I will, she will not be here for long. Dreams are not meant to come true, and hers will be no exception. I pick up a box in frustration and throw it across the room, tightly packed plates shattering into millions of sharp shards.

 _Whoops_ , I think sarcastically.

There is a creak on the rickety stairs. Kim's head pops from over the banister and a fearful and confused expression overtakes her face. I smirk in the light of my vengeance and watch happily as she rushes over to the upturned box and its demolished contents. From my view in the dark, secluded corner, I can see every emotion pass over her face as she tries to figure out what happened. I laugh softly.

Her head pops up in the blink of an eye and her eyes widen drastically as her head rotates back and forth like an owl. "Who...who's there?" she says meekly, her voice cracking in fear. I do not answer as she knows there is nobody here but I. Kim's hands shake as she clenches them together. Suddenly she shakes her head back and forth while muttering, "Come on Kim, get a grip. The first night is always the hardest." She stands to grab a broom and clean up my mess. Sweeping away like the servant she is until all of the expensive, broken china is cleaned up. The stairs creak loudly as she hikes back up the stairs, although I follow her silently, not a sound speaking of my presence. Kim cries silently into her pillow once she dons her nightcap and pulls her sheets up until they are tucked tightly under her chin. I feel no pity for the child. She is not like me nor will she ever be. Kim Coppola is made to be a servant, as is God's will. Slaves should obey their earthly masters with deep respect and fear; they should serve their masters as sincerely as they would Christ. Although the times have changed immensely, there is not a doubt in my mind that she does not belong under _my_ roof, bearing _my_ address and calling it her own.

A fortnight later when dawn breaks the morning sky, Kim wakes up quickly and rushes downstairs to see a spotless living room. Every other night had found me throwing something or another across a room in frustration at the wretched girl sleeping just upstairs. I had not yet inflicted harm upon the youth, but that is not to say that I haven't tried. One particularly volatile morning had me removing the nails from the fourteenth step of the main stairwell. Unfortunately, Kim had caught herself on the banister as her foot fell through the unattached board. I chuckled as I watched the incident with amusement then annoyance.

Several weeks following found Kim sitting under the great, oak tree in my spacious backyard. Most every night she had been wailing loudly at the destruction that I have made to her personal belongings. Truly, I am surprised that she has not yet left the house as many others would've at this point. I watch as she traces the ridges that ripple gracefully through the bark of the tree, her mocha skin shining brightly as she frowns. Ah, she had come upon a distinctive name scrawled haphazardly onto the large oak tree. "Huh, Ewell. A previous owner maybe?" she questions.

 _Surely she kids_ , I think. Mister Ewell was one of the most glorious men to ever walk through my doorway and stay for the supper that was served. He was a right gentlemen and was respected as so. Many other influential men had also walked the hallways, admired the paintings, and even complimented Mistress for what wonderful slaves she owned. Most of our guests, like Mister John Ward, Mister Burneside, and Mister Braxton, had carved their names into a slanted wall in the attic to mark themselves present. Unlike his predecessors, Mister Ewell had been here to determine the quality of _them._ He then carved his name into the old oak tree to make sure that his name would forever be seen by the— _What in dear heaven is she doing!_

I watch in horror as Kim scratches out Mister Ewell's name with the tip of her barrette, penning her own right beside it. Fury rolls through me and the sky darkens along with my mood. How _dare_ that anserine girl rewrite history! I run through the back door and into the kitchen defenestrating any item that comes along my path.

"Oh, God," Kim exclaims in distress, watching as her favorite wooden chair is thrown out the window. She rushes into the house and there I am. I watch smugly as tears roll down her face. Her kitchen is ruined, but I have not yet let out all my anger. There is no repercussion that could possibly undo the massive damage that has been done by her hands. She looks right at me, her head spinning like a pinwheel, as she screams at me to leave her house. Kim's tearstained cheeks shine brightly in the brummagem, fluorescent light that I have yet to put out. Her yells are futile as I reach up and knock the bulb from its perch, the sunlight coming through the broken window being the sole source of illumination in the demolished kitchen.

"Leave! I know it has been you ruining my house. I swear, I'll….I'll….call the cops if you don't leave this instant! Don't think I won't," she cries frantically.

A knock on the door stops me from tormenting the child further. Kim Coppola shakily answers the door to see a holy man dressed in a black robe. The man forces a smile, his eyes flittering around nervously under his thick, black glasses.

"He-hello there. Can I help you?" Kim asks, her voice gaining confidence as she goes.

"Ah, I was about to ask you the same question. I heard some loud yelling as I was passing by and was wondering if I could be of any assistance. My name…." he starts to say, but my mind drifts off. I have known this foolish man for years. Amorth has been watching my side of the street vigilantly, though he, like many others, has never had the guts to walk up to my door. Kim's gasp pulls my attention back to the conversation at hand.

"Really? Well then I'm sorry for the disturbance. I didn't realize I was being so obnoxious and I'll try to keep it down from now on." Her voice wavers in the heat of Amorth's gaze.

"Oh no, dear. I meant that I'm here to help. I know _what…_ currently resides here. Has it been bothering you much? I have tried asking it politely to leave, but it refused. I think that I may be able to help." I scoff loudly at the old hoot and both he and Kim stiffen at the sound. Kim nods slowly in acceptance. "We better get to work then," Amorth says, taking charge.

I don't care to stick around for anything this man thinks he can do. Amorth is not a threat to me and I won't treat him as if he were. I know that God is the only man who can force me to do anything, and since he hasn't intervened yet, that must mean that I am on the right path that he has laid out for me. I sit and mourn Mister Ewell's name underneath the great oak tree, crows flying out of the yard whenever I get too close. I would try to carve his name back where it belongs, but I could not attempt to imitate his script well enough. An hour later, I find Kim waving Amorth goodbye from the doorway, promising to phone him if she has any more trouble. As she closes the door, little, white flecks of salt bound from the floor beneath the door. Amorth's useless antics have always amused me, but never enough to break my agelast ways.

I creep silently behind Kim as she walks slowly toward her bedroom. Hanging upon one of the bedposts is a small doll with green hair and a green coat tied around its middle with brown string. The leather belt that holds it there is very loosely buckled and the doll looks as if it is about to fall out of its makeshift sling. Kim's hands shake as she wills herself to tighten the buckle, but she can't for it is at its last hole. Many other ritualistic items are strewn across the room. As Kim sleeps, tossing and turning in her squeaky bed, I go to each and every doll and claw their little heads off. Call it revenge for her invading on _my_ private property. Downstairs, I grab a knife and slit all of the furniture available. The following morning when Kim wakes up, I wait silently on a mauled couch as she cries loudly in front of me, looking around at the damage I have once again inflicted. I radiate pride as she practically paces a hole into my original, wooden floors. After multiple calls on her cellular phone and another visit from Amorth, Kim packs her bags and Amorth drives her to the nearest, available hostel. My hard work has finally paid off and I watch gleefully as she leaves, silently looking out from the upstairs window.

What surprised me most was that nobody had told her of my past. Though I feel quite honored of my past, many others do not share my logic. I am quite unhappy that slaves are free now, but I can still remember the good ol' days about two hundred years ago was when America was at its prime and slaves knew their place. All of Mistress LaLaurie's servants would work without question and would make my numerous guests happy. I can still remember Mistress saying, "Slaves, obey your masters," as she would sell her own to a new master. They all know that they are below us, but the biggest distinction between us and them is the color of our skin which immediately determines your place in life.

Little did I know that many years after that poor Kim girl, another lonely soul would decide to buy the house rumored to be haunted.


End file.
